


Face to the sun

by shealwaysreads (onereader)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Holidays, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, happy birthday maesterchill, soft and dirty feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:35:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24995482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onereader/pseuds/shealwaysreads
Summary: It wasn’t their first holiday together, but whenever Draco took Harry abroad it felt special.In which Draco and Harry have gotten better at taking holidays together, they’ve gotten better at doing all sorts of things together.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 20
Kudos: 195





	Face to the sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaesterChill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaesterChill/gifts).



> Happy Birthday M! 
> 
> This was inspired by your your beautiful art - a little bit of sun, a little bit of _feels_ \- I hope you like it darling!
> 
> You’re a joy to have gotten to know - unerringly kind and generous and so bloody talented - and this is a tiny token from me to you! ❤️
> 
> Thank you to the beta and cheerleader babes m0stlyvoid and tackytiger! ❤️
> 
> Inspired by this beautiful art by MaesterChill!  
> 

Draco blinked awake to bright sunlight glinting through the sheer curtains at the windows. Ridiculous. The hotel clearly didn’t want its clientele sleeping in on their _holiday_. But his ire settled as he stretched and rolled towards the glass doors leading to the balcony. Harry was out there, a hazy silhouette against a stark blue sky through the gauzy window-dressing, wearing only the green swimming trunks Draco had brought for himself. The sheets smelled of _them_ , of their shared shampoo, and sweat, and sex. So Draco watched Harry and luxuriated in it, lazy and content in the knowledge that when they came back from dinner tonight the bed would be fresh and neat—ready for them to ruin it all over again. 

It wasn’t their first holiday together, but whenever Draco took Harry abroad it felt special. An adventure without fear or danger, full of time and space and the excitement of the unknown, and even now Draco still felt like gloating that he was the one who got to show Harry the world in all of its sunlit splendour—to share these trips with him and carve gentler memories into the bedrock of their lives.

When they first got together, Draco found out that Harry had never been out of the country before; it was one of many galling facts that Draco excavated from the dust and stone of Harry’s admissions and silences during those early months of working each other out. During that time, Harry’s childhood had been revealed to be a study in lack, in not-having, in exclusion and isolation. They didn’t talk about it much, usually only when Harry got drunk and maudlin—red wine and cheap Firewhisky, inevitably—and Draco would sit quietly as Harry talked around the subject in circles, uncharacteristically indirect. Thankfully, Draco was adept in the language of avoidance, he could read between the lines. Harry would speak quietly, until he was whispering in the guttering candlelight. And then he would fall silent, and Draco would manoeuvre him out of his chair and up the stairs to their bedroom, and hold him.

Their first holiday had been catastrophic. They had been together for three months—three months of sex that left bruises, that felt like fighting played out with a fresh set of soft spots; of slowly untangling their history from their present (from their tentative thoughts of the future), of learning where their jagged edges met with tenderness, of sitting across a table of tea and toast and bitter-silver curls of smoke and smiles that made something inside of Draco ache and flutter.

Draco had chosen a ridiculously extravagant hotel in the tiny wizarding district of Venice—still wanting to impress, falling back on old habits that didn’t fit quite as well as they used to. It was August, the heat had been stifling, and the crowds spilling from gigantic Muggle cruise ships turned the plazas and tiny alleys into a heaving mass of sweaty flesh and flashing cameras. Draco had had an anxiety attack on the first morning (Harry had sat with him silently for hours when he got him back to their room, a heavy Nox around them, his shoulder steady), Harry had eaten something bad and vomited for the duration of their second night (Draco had stroked his hair away from his clammy forehead, flushed the toilet, conjured cool water for him to sip). Neither of them had been comfortable in the plush hotel suite; Harry simultaneously overawed and uncomfortable, Draco strangely ashamed of the excess he had been raised to expect. They had come back to London three days early.

But they had gotten better at their breaks, just like they had gotten better at everything else. They were both nothing if not determined, in all aspects of their life, and once they had decided that this—that _they_ —were something worth fighting for, Draco had settled into the surety of Harry keeping up with him ( _keeping_ him).

The line of Harry’s jaw eventually became a more pressing concern than the residual twinge in Draco’s thighs, so he slipped out of bed and stepped into soft cotton to cover his nakedness. He walked past the crisp boundary of their room’s Cooling Charms, and rolled his shoulders when he was hit with a wall of warmth and light as he stepped into the bright mid-morning sunshine. 

There was a breeze off the ocean, brine and ozone. But it was insufficient to offset the heat of the sun, or of Harry’s sweat-shining back as he leaned against the balcony and watched the sea and the sky mingle in blues and greens and the white-kissed curls of waves and clouds. Draco moved closer, watched as Harry cocked his head, listening to Dracos footsteps, as he came to stand behind him quietly. Draco could smell the salt on him—sweat and sea-water—and the dark curls behind Harry’s ears, at his nape, were shining with moisture. Draco wanted to taste them.

Instead, he hooked his chin over Harry’s shoulder. “Morning, nice swim?” 

Harry hummed in the affirmative and leaned back—trusting, always so trusting—into Draco’s chest, a satisfied sigh gusting out of him when Draco wrapped him in his arms. 

“Nicer if you came down with me later though.”

Draco kissed at his neck, savouring the sting of salt against his mouth, and looked over Harry’s shoulder to where his own pale hands stroked at Harry’s abdomen, darkly tanned already after just a couple of days in the sun. Bastard. All Draco had to show for his lounging on the beach was scattered freckles and the tingle of heat in his bones when he was in bed at night—though maybe, on reflection, that was just Harry being next to him.

“I could be convinced, if we’ve got time,” he murmured against Harry’s skin.

Harry raised his cigarette and inhaled deeply, his back pressing against Draco’s chest as his lungs filled, the faintest crackle of burning embers audible over the breeze. “Didn’t think we had anything planned for today.”

Draco slipped his hands lower, knocking aside Harry’s hand where he’d lazily wedged it in his trunks, and slipped his own fingers under the waistband to replace it. Harry’s exhalation was shuddering and smoky, and the scent of cloves on the air was so like home. Draco breathed it in as he ran his nose along the curve of Harry’s neck and licked delicately at the sweet softness of his earlobe.

“ _We_ hadn’t planned anything. But when I woke up and you were gone I may have formulated a small...ambition for the day.” He stroked, feather-light at the cut of Harry’s hip, and hid his smug grin in Harry’s hair at the resulting twitch.

Harry vanished his cigarette with a twist of his fingers and a delicious spark of magic—bright, and deep, and sparkling along Draco’s awareness—and turned in Draco’s arms, with his own smile dimpling at his cheeks. He nudged his hips against Draco’s, and huffed a laugh at the involuntary whine it drew. “Only one ambition for the day? You really _are_ relaxing.”

He was losing ground; the way Harry dragged their bodies together, his hands firm at Draco’s waist, and the arrogant tilt of his head as he watched the rising flush Draco could feel heating his throat all combined with the heady knowledge that here on their balcony they were easily visible by anyone on the beach. 

“Just one,” he managed to answer, in a voice that would have sounded steady to anyone but Harry (who knew Draco’s tells better than anyone, now). “I’m a simple man to please, my goals aren’t lofty.”

Harry snorted with laughter, and tucked his face down into Draco’s neck to bite, and suck, and urge him to elaborate with a questioning hum that buzzed against his skin. Safe from knowing green eyes, Draco grinned and tilted his head back to back in the sunlight and Harry’s mouth. He slid his hands up Harry’s arms—radial, bicep, deltoid all firm and strong and tensile under his fingertips—and settled them at his nape, tangling in those sea-kissed curls to hold him close. Draco had the winning hand, and wanted a firm grip before Harry yielded to it.

“Mmm,” Draco hummed, casual and unaffected. “I woke up and before I even opened my eyes, I thought about the ache you’d left me with.” Harry stiffened against him. “An empty bed and an empty hole.”

“Draco,” Harry groaned against him, his tone of voice as good as a red rag to a bull.

“I can still feel it now,” Draco continued, breathing deeply to maintain his composure when Harry pushed his hands past the low-hanging waist of the joggers (Harry’s, of course—Draco always wore bespoke tailoring, but sometimes only the worn-soft cotton of Harry’s favourite clothes would satisfy him) and groped at his arse, broad palms and strong fingers and just the right side of painful. Draco ducked his head, and whispered into Harry’s ear, deliberately breathy and deep. “I can feel your come, trickling out of me as we speak. I’m wet.” He paused for effect, then dropped his well-crafted bomb. “You probably wouldn’t even need lube to stretch me out right now.”

Harry, action over words as ever, immediately palmed Draco’s cheeks apart and then one blunt fingertip was circling his hole—as wet and slick as promised—then pushing in with intent, only stopping when his knuckle nudged at Draco’s tender rim. 

“ _Fuck_.” Harry’s voice was ragged already, and Draco clenched around his finger in victory and helpless response to his touch.

“My plan exactly, Harry.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, come and say hello on If you enjoyed this, come and say hello on [Tumblr!](https://shealwaysreads.tumblr.com/) ❤️


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